


Waiting for the Phone to Ring

by theskywasblue



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Phone Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-24
Updated: 2012-10-24
Packaged: 2017-11-17 00:20:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/545439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theskywasblue/pseuds/theskywasblue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I think this was a calculated plan to ruin  my boxers"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Waiting for the Phone to Ring

**Author's Note:**

> Basically a terrible fic, more or less subtitled "Call Me, Maybe" (because I am a terrible person)

“I am going to kill someone.”

“Ah, darling,” Eames rasped, sitting up in bed and scrubbing a hand across his face. The clock on the bedside table dutifully informed him it was just after one in the morning. “Such sweet nothings.”

There was a long, heavy silence on the other end of the line, and then, “Eames?”

Eames kicked his feet to try and rearrange the tangle of blankets, grabbing the remote and muting the television. The movie he had dozed off to had given way to the Berlin local news. “Yes, Arthur. Were you expecting someone else?”

“Fuck, yes. I’m sorry. I just dialled and...”

Eames hummed, “That’s terribly flattering.”

“Oh shut up,” Arthur grumbled. Eames heard the rustle of fabric, a long sigh of breath. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Don’t trouble yourself, darling,” he didn’t even feel tired anymore, honestly. A quick kip and he was good to go. Not that he was in any hurry to get back to get back to work. “Unless, of course, I’m the one you want to do away with and you didn’t want me to find out. I think that ship may have sailed.”

“Not you,” and if Eames was not mistaken, there was a definite puff of laughter behind the assurance.  
“Our architect though...”

“Anyone I know?”

“No,” Arthur snorted, “He’s fucking amateur and this job is going to fall apart if he doesn’t get his head out of his ass.”

“Charming.” Eames, unfortunately, knew the trials of incompetent team members. “If it’s any consolation, my job is going tits up at the minute. Provided Volden doesn’t accidently kill us all, I’ll be able to meet you in Zurich much earlier than expected. We’re doing our first run tomorrow morning, and if it goes as spectacularly badly as I suspect it might, we’ll be calling it quits by tea time. I won’t have gotten paid, but at least I won’t need you to bail me out of jail.”

“I won’t need you to bail me out of jail either,” Arthur promised, “they’ll never catch me. But I should let you go so you can get some sleep.”

Eames chuckled, breaking off into a heavy yawn. "Arthur, darling, rest assured you can always ring me if you want to hear my lovely voice."

"Lovely," Arthur snorted, amused. ""Eames, this was practically a butt-dial."

"Then, perhaps your gorgeous posterior is trying to tell you something."

The sound Arthur made on the other end of the line this time was a great deal more derisive; but it was entirely worth it to imagine the colour in his cheeks that surely went with it. "Right. It’s telling me that I should quit while I’m ahead, probably. Or at least before I actually commit murder.”

Eames shrugged, before remembering that Arthur couldn’t see him. “Well, if you need to let off a little steam, you could always pop the button on your fine Italian trousers for me.”

Arthur made a soft, involuntary sound. Eames picked at a tiny, frayed spot on the hotel sheets and counted off from ten in his head.

He got to eight before Arthur said, “How do you know I’m wearing ‘Italian trousers?’”

“You always do,” Eames laughed.

“Shut up,” Arthur countered, which meant he didn’t have a proper argument, or he surely would have made it. “What are you wearing?”

“See, you’re getting in to it now,” Eames teased. “And I happen to be wearing nothing but your most favourite of undergarments.”

“Oh God,” Arthur groaned, “not those fucking boxer shorts...”

The shorts in question had been a gag gift from Ariadne for Eames’ last birthday, patterned like the Union Jack. Eames, out of sheer bloody-mindedness more than anything, adored them in all their hideously patriotic glory.

“Come now, Arthur, be honest – you love the idea of me lying here in my hideous shorts and listening to you touch yourself.” Arthur’s breath hitched sharply, and Eames grinned smugly to himself. “Now, do you have your trousers open yet?”

Eames could hear the obvious shuffling sounds of Arthur getting comfortable. He pulled back his own sheet, settling it around his knees.

“Alright,” Arthur said at last.

Eames resisted the urge to laugh outright into the phone. Only Arthur could sound so tetchy about a little bit of phone sex. “And what are we wearing under our finely tailored trousers this evening?”

“You know what kind of underwear I like, Eames.”

“You’re really terrible at this, Arthur.”

Arthur huffed, “Just because I prefer to be in the same room as you when I get off...”

“You can’t tell me you’ve never just settled back and had a really good wank while thinking about me. I certainly thought of you in the shower this morning.” Of course, time alone with one’s hand wasn’t at all like time alone with someone else; but needs must. “I thought of you, on your knees, with my cock in your mouth...”

“Why am _I_ the one on my knees?” Arthur countered abruptly, "Maybe I want you on _your_ knees."

A fissure of warmth ran up Eames' spine. He held his breath for a moment and inched himself down more comfortably on the pillows, putting a warm hand over where his cock was starting to swell beneath the fabric of his shorts.

"If that's what you want, Arthur, I would never deny you."

"Damn right you wouldn't." Eames heard the hitch in Arthur's voice that meant he had a hand around himself, and his own hand twitched involuntarily in response, applying pressure to sensitive flesh and making Eames grunt. Arthur gave a low laugh, "You love the taste of my cock, don't you, Eames?"

“Yes.” Denial was hardly an option. Eames could feel the phantom weight on his tongue, the pressure on his jaw. He pushed his hand under the waistband of his shorts and curled his fingers around his cock, hard now, and wet at the tip. “I could suck your cock forever, Arthur.”

“You should,” Arthur was breathing hard, and Eames could hear the soft, urgent sound of skin on skin over the low static. “God, Eames, you have the most perfect cock-sucking mouth...tell me you want my cock Eames; tell me how much you want it.”

Literally all the blood in Eames’ body left his brain and rushed south. He felt momentarily dizzy and tightened his fingers around the head of his cock, ignoring the eager slickness for the sake of preserving his dignity by not coming too quickly.

“Desperately,” he managed at last. “Which I would think was obvious – considering I once flew eight hours to spend three hours in a filthy hotel room with you before flying another five hours.”

Arthur laughed raggedly, “Best three hours in the worst hotel room of my _life_ \- fuck, Eames, come on. Tell – tell me what you’re going to do when you get here.”

Eames could barely catch his breath, hand working towards a fast finish, balls tight and cock throbbing. “The first – first thing – I’m going to take your beautiful trousers off and let you come down my throat...”

“Eames –“

If Arthur said anything else, it was drowned out by the rush of blood in Eames’ ears as he came, slicking the inside of his boxers into a horrible ruin, hips twitching up off the bed. For a very long while, all Eames could hear was Arthur’s breathing over the phone. His arm started to ache a little – an old injury to his rotator cuff reacting to the awkward angle – and his ear was going numb from the pressure of the phone against it.

“Arthur?”

“Mmm?” Arthur responded, sounding drowsy. It really was a shame they weren’t in the same room – Arthur, pre-verbal, was a beautiful thing; warm and pliant, he would shiver under Eames’ kisses.

“I take it back,” Eames pulled his hand out from inside his shorts and wiped it on the outside. No use trying to preserve them at this point – he should have taken them off. “You are bloody brilliant.”

“Mmm...yeah,” Arthur agreed; modest as ever.

“I do think this was a calculated plan to ruin my boxers, however.”

This time, the silence on the other end of the line was very long.

“Trust me, Eames,” Arthur said at last, “when you get to Zurich, you won’t need any underwear.”

-End-


End file.
